


in a room full of mirrors i figured it out

by ruskieblaine (pudgysam)



Category: Luke Cage (TV), Sons of Anarchy
Genre: M/M, juice will always be stupid for chibs
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-05-26
Updated: 2018-08-05
Packaged: 2019-05-14 05:22:11
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,371
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14763407
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pudgysam/pseuds/ruskieblaine
Summary: Cornell is another reminder of his life in Charming, of a dead Son. Shades is tired of that shit.





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This work is ongoing, but I've had this first chapter completed for over a year and I want it out damn it. That being said, archive warnings will probably change as the story evolves.

In another life, Juice finishes his cherry pie. He dies alone in prison, cold and tired. His name seeps anonymously into the cheap brick wall rather than blow in the dusty wind kicked backed by his Dyna. 

This is not that life.

* * *

Three days after Jax’s visit, he’s pulled from whatever shitty job with shit pay they have him at that week. He doesn’t recognize the two guards that grab him, and they don’t say anything, just drag him to a windowless room away from the other inmates. He feels the eyes of the Chinese boring holes between his shoulder blades. 

The room has a steel table with two matching chairs on either side. Chains lay in a pile on the floor in front of one, and everything is bolted to the floor. They shove him into the chains-and-chair combo, cuffing his wrists and ankles. As they finish locking him in, a woman with a large, expensive briefcase, strides into the room. 

“Thank you, gentlemen,” her voice is as cool as the steel he’s sitting on. “Now, if you would be so kind as to leave. My client and I have a lot to discuss.” Her tone permits no argument, and the guards leave quickly, muttering _yes ma’am’s_ under their breath. 

“Client?” Juice scoffs, “Think you have the wrong guy, ain’t no lawyer coming to see me. Not anymore.”

She ignores him in favor of watching the door close shut, her gaze hard and flinty, before turning that same stare onto Juice. Staying silent, she moves toward the table, her heels clicking intimidatingly on the concrete floor, and drops the leather briefcase in the center of the table with a heavy thud. This close, Juice can see the detail of the ornate silver clasps and where the leather has creased with use along the handle. Not just for show then. 

“Mr. Ortiz, my employer has taken an interest in you,” she unfastens both clasps simultaneously, flicking the lid open with practiced motions, “And while I am not so privy to the reasoning behind his desires, I am more knowledgeable with the law.” She spins the case so that Juice can see its contents. 

Curious despite himself, he leans forward, the chains allowing just enough movement so that he can awkwardly paw through the folders and papers inside. Not only does he find his current case file, but Opie’s, Jax’s, hell _Tara’s_ case files, some dating back ten fucking years. Hardcore shit on everyone in SAMCRO and their affiliates, even the goddamn croweaters. They’re detailed too, incriminating photos and evidence that he’s never seen before. Enough dirt that would easily validate every piece of circumstantial evidence against SAMCRO and put everyone - everyone still alive - away for hard time. 

His heart in his throat, he digs mindlessly through the thick files with shaking hands until he finds Chibs’. Pulling it to the top of the pile, he lays his palms flat over the faded California state seal. Without looking up, he manages to croak out, “What the hell do you want?”

“It’s not what I want, Mr. Ortiz,” she replies indifferently, almost bored. “It’s what Mr. Stryker wants, and right now he wants you in Georgia.” She bends down, forcing Juice to look her in the eye. “I am very good at what I do, Mr. Ortiz. Refuse Mr. Stryker, and the nice sheriffs down at San Joaquin P.D. will receive a very large package, and SAMCRO will be wiped off the map. Permanently.”

* * *

He never got his cherry pie, but Juice Ortiz still dies in Stockton.

In the muggy, summer heat of Georgia, amidst singing cicadas, Hernan Alvarez is born in the walls of Seagate. 

Alvarez does what he’s told, and is paid handsomely in both money and a new ally in return.

* * *

Three years pass and Alvarez leaves Seagate a very different man. Physically, he’s lost weight in Rackham’s fights, his bulk becoming leaner but more durable. He grows out his hair long enough so the tribal tattoos on the sides of his head are covered. He also leaves a harder man, one that’s less inclined to smile, and quicker to throw a punch. He tries not to dwell on how separated he feels when his fist crunches against bone when blood sprays across split knuckles. 

As he leaves, he’s given the clothes he had on when they arrested him in Charming. Pulling on the cargo pants, and shoving his feet into the heavy boots, he has to swallow hard against the bile rising in his throat. With his back to the prison gates, he walks to the black Escalade idling by the curb. The driver Diamondback sent presses a thick wad of hundred dollar bills into his hand. “For your troubles,” he says as Alvarez thumbs through the bills distractedly. 

When he doesn’t reply, the driver moves to open the backseat door, but Alvarez snatches his wrist. “I’ll drive,” he says coldly. The driver nods once and slowly takes back his hand. 

He can’t (won’t) go near another bike, but he misses the ride like a hacked off limb. Wants the familiar growl and vibration beneath his seat. He settles for Diamondback’s cage and drives the fancy Escalade all the way from the Georgia coast to Harlem, ignoring the ache in his chest. 

On the way, he stops at a Ray-Ban shop in SoHo and buys a pair of black sunglasses he’d seen some of the yuppies back in Charming wear.

* * *

Here’s what he does: dusts off his hacker skill set to create an entirely new life complete with a rap sheet longer than God’s dick; builds a brand spanking new reputation for Shades; makes a new, expensive wardrobe out of black suits and black boots; and buys tattoo concealer in bulk. 

Here’s what he doesn’t do: look in the mirror longer than a few seconds; go near the parts of Harlem where the corner boys frequent; roll his sleeves up past his wrists; and never mentions the club or Tara to anyone. 

He doesn’t think about Chibs.

* * *

In a lot of ways, Cornell reminds Shades of Juice. Mostly in his recklessness and his dumbass decisions. It’s the reason why he goes to Mariah, the reason why he looks her dead on demanding her to do what he knows she’s capable of.

Cornell is another reminder of his life in Charming, of a dead Son. Shades is tired of that shit.

* * *

It’s not much of a stretch to tell Mariah he grew up on the streets of Harlem, rather than in the dingy apartment in Queens, to force her recognition of him. Mama Mabel’s name trickled far outside of Harlem back then, even to the old neighborhood.

Besides, what’s another lie to add to the pile?

* * *

She kisses him in front of the Basquiat paintings. Bites his bottom lip, tugs sharply, and then leaves him at the window. Looking down at the stage, at the pulsing crowd, Shades sees a kingdom carved out from the wreckage left by Cornell’s debt and Diamondback’s vengeance.

His kingdom.

It’s not enough. 

The last of the fading summer heat is almost gone, and Harlem is starting to feel the chill of early fall creeping in. He can’t suffocate the sick feeling that’s been scraping at his chest since Stockton. It died down a little these past few weeks between Carl Lucas returning from the goddamned grave and Cornell’s stupidity, but it roared back to life after Diamondback showed up at Pop’s place. The same helplessness he felt when Jax had him backed into a corner. 

It’d still be warm in Charming for a few more weeks. 

He turns away from the window, following Mariah out to the balcony. She’s sprawled elegantly on the couch with a martini in her hand, watching over the crowd. Power looks good on her, he’s sorry he can’t enjoy it more. 

He shifts halfway back to the crowd, keeping her in his line of sight. “I’ll have to leave town for a few days,” he says evenly. 

There’s a beat of silence before, “Oh.” Her voice is tight, restrained. She’s not happy. 

He stifles the urge to smirk, pleased by her reaction. Like Cornell’s gun, it suits her, the annoyance that he’s leaving her side, too far for her to control. “Unfinished business that has to be resolved.” 

She lifts her drink to her lips, regarding him shrewdly over the rim, “This, business? Is it the kind that can blow back on Harlem?” Pursing her lips delicately, she takes a long sip. 

Gemma would have liked her. 

The thought comes unbidden, gutting him from the inside out. He hasn’t thought of her in months. 

He grits his teeth against his shaken nerve. “No.” 

Mariah narrows her eyes at him. Skillfully, she throws back the rest of her martini, then places the glass on the side table with a light clink. “Fine. But you take those two new guys. The brothers,” she says waving her hand vaguely over her shoulder, “Damian and Marcus.”

He frowns at her, “Why?”

She lifts an eyebrow in a daring arch, “For protection of course.” 

Shades bites back the retort he wants to make. Protection his ass. The Dynamic Duo have quickly become Mariah’s favorites. Sending them means that even on the other side of the country, she still knows every move he makes. 

He inclines his head, silently accepting her terms. 

“Good!” she exclaims, snapping her fingers at the nearby waitress. “Now, come have a drink with me. We have a lot to celebrate.” 

* * *

Shades and the brothers touch down in Fresno on a Tuesday afternoon. The crowds are thin, the vast majority being men and women in business suits too busy rushing to their flights and talking on their fancy smartphones to pay attention to the three men.

A nondescript car has been arranged to pick them up, and they bypass baggage claim altogether. Stepping out from the cool of the airport, Shades closes his eyes and orients himself. Opening his eyes, he sees Marcus popping the trunk and tossing their overnight bags in. Breathing deeply, Shades moves to sit in the back while Marcus takes shotgun and Damian the driver’s seat. 

Damian glances at Shades through the rearview mirror, “Where we headed, boss?” His heavy Bronx accent already starting to sound a little more foreign. Shades holds his gaze for a moment, assessing his options. Finally, he breaks the stare, unhooks his sunglasses from his dress shirt, and slides them on. 

Relaxing into the cheap leather he answers, “Stockton.” 

* * *

It’s a two-hour drive spent in relative quiet. Shades drops his head against the headrest, too restless to really sleep, but tired enough to close his eyes. Damian and Marcus keep a running commentary of small talk in quiet murmurs. 

By the time they pull into the Motel 6 parking lot, the sun is dipping low into the sky. They check in with cash, the brothers in one room, Shades in another. In the hallway between the two, Marcus tries to argue against it saying shit like Shades needed their extra security.

Shades smirks, amused, “Security against what? The tumbleweeds?”

Marcus scowls at him, “Mariah didn’t pay us to go on vaca-” Damian’s hand slapping him upside the head cuts him off. Shades smirk grows wider.

“Keep your fool mouth shut before you say something really stupid,” Damian scolds. He turns to face Shades, his eyes sharp. “Didn’t mean anything by it, boss. No disrespect,” he assures. “Just making sure you get home whole is all.” 

Marcus snorts quietly. Damian glares at him and smacks him in the middle of his chest. “We’re just here to help, Shades. Whatever you need.” 

Shades nods at the two of them, accepting the apology as intended. Damian smiles in thanks before glaring again at Marcus. “C’mon,” he grumbles, pushing Marcus through the open door behind them and closing it shut on Marcus’ indignation. 

Shades laughs quietly as he enters his own room. He likes the two of them, he really does. They’re a nice balance, the Dynamic Duo, what with Marcus’ hot-blood tempered by Damian’s calm. It’s that balance he enjoys that prevented him from emptying a clip into both of their heads and leaving the bodies in shallow graves. A counterattack in this game he and Mariah have begun. 

He drops his bag on the bed, fishing his laptop out and placing it on the desk opposite from the bed, his sunglasses landing next to it. It’s too late in the day to do much, but he can get some research out of the way. Figure out where Charming is on the map these days.

He starts off superficially, digging through public records like news articles and obituaries. Coming up with nothing, he builds a trojan and slips past San Joaquin P.D’s firewall, hacking into their confidential files. Spiraling down the proverbial rabbit hole, he finds the autopsy reports for Gemma and Jax and scans them quickly, his stomach churning. 

Jesus, on some level he knew Jax would kill Gemma, but being faced with it? Knowing that he fired the bullets into her skull? That his confession is what probably triggered it? He shoves the laptop away violently, pushing the heels of his palms into his eyes until he sees stars. 

“Fuck,” he whispers. 

He pulls back enough to scrub his hands over his head, thinking. He sighs deeply, resigning to who he has to look for next. Chibs was Jax’s Vice President, he wouldn’t let Jax die alone, he was too loyal. Shades drags it out, meticulously searching for the rest of SAMCRO, and finds only Bobby’s autopsy. No one else even had a recent mug shot, including Chibs. 

Confused, he goes back to Jax’s autopsy and rereads it more carefully. He’d somehow skipped over the cause of death before, but now it’s as if _head-on collision_ were glowing an impossible to miss neon. None of it made sense. Jax had octane running through his veins and was too skilled of a driver to end up kissing the grill of a Mac truck. 

By now, his stomach is rioting, and he has to breathe shallowly in order to fight nausea. He makes sure to leave no trace as he backs out of the files, carefully destroying the trojan as he goes. Standing on weak legs, he staggers to the tiny bathroom, gripping the laptop. Stuffing it underneath the sink faucet, he twists both knobs and watches with burning eyes as the rushing water drowns the keys, suddenly exhausted.

Eventually, he turns the water off. Leaving the laptop in the sink, he walks back into the room, mechanically beginning to strip. He slowly unbuttons his shirt until he’s able to untuck the hem from the waistband of his slacks and shrugs it off, half-paying attention to the rustle of the material as it slides to the floor. His shoes are next, followed by his socks, belt, and slacks until he’s left only in his underwear and his clothes are a heap on the floor. 

Stepping out of the pile, he stumbles forward, first turning off the lights and then collapsing on the bed. He just barely remembers to program an alarm for eight on his phone before he passes out. 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The title is from Shinedown's [Evolve](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=F7n_ddzdEjI) which I highly recommend. 
> 
> Juice is in Stockton in 2013 and moves to Seagate in GA around 2013-2016.
> 
> Thank you so much for reading! Find me at my [tumblr](http://ruskieblaine.tumblr.com).


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The sun beats hard and hot along his bare arms. No kutte or jacket means no protection for his vulnerable back as the wind whips his shirt around his torso. A reminder: he’s alone here.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry about the late update, but school was a bitch and a half this summer.

He doesn’t sleep well. Hasn’t, really, since Stockton.  
****

At 6:22, a car backfiring down the street throws him violently awake from a nightmare of shifting shadows. Shades fumbles in haste for the Beretta buried in the bag still on the side table. Finally, he feels the familiar grooves of the handle, and, not for the last time, thanks every goddamned God out there that Mariah had enough pull to get their guns through security.

Disengaging the safety, he aims at each shadow the early morning light casts in the cramped room. Satisfied that nothing is there but him, he flicks the safety back on and shakily rests the butt of the gun against his forehead. 

He glances at the angry red of the alarm clock next to the bed; 6:23.

* * *

He doesn’t go back to sleep.

He sits up so his back leans against the headboard, facing the door. The Beretta rests in his lap, his thumb waiting against the safety. 

At 8:17 he shoves himself out of bed and robotically pulls on yesterday’s clothes, tucking the gun underneath his shirt and into his waistband. He grabs his wallet from the desk on his way out the door, pausing to hang the “Do Not Disturb” sign on the handle. Crossing the hallway he knocks on the brothers’ door. When no one answers, he pounds on the wood harder.

A muffled, “Alright, alright!” Then Shades hears the locks click and takes a step back as Damian opens the door in his boxers and a tank top, rubbing his eyes. “Fucking Christ man,” he mutters. “Do you even know what time…” his voice trails off when he lowers his hand. 

“Oh. Hey, boss,” he says, blinking blearily at Shades. “Sorry about the” - Damian flaps his hand between them - “you know.”

Shades raises an eyebrow. “Uh huh,” he says flatly. “I need the keys.”

“Yeah, sure boss,” Damian pats his hips and stomach reflexively as if they were hiding underneath the thin waistband of his boxers. “Uh, hang on.” He turns on his heel disappearing in the dark room, soon returning with the key ring. “So, where we goin’?”

Shades snatches the keys from his loose grip, “ _We_ aren’t going anywhere.”

A long minute passes as they stare each other down. The Beretta feels warm against the small of his back. Damian’s hand clenches on nothing. 

Finally, Damian looks away, “Sure thing boss.” He retreats back into the room, the tumblers of the locks snapping into place behind him. 

Shades stands there for a minute longer, listening as hard as he can for a phone call. 

* * *

He first stops at a nearby Target, picking up a three pack of black t-shirts, a black belt, and a pair of cargo pants.

He then drops by a military surplus store and buys a battered Ka-Bar and sheath. 

At the counter, a bored young woman checks him out. Her blonde hair is shaved on one side so that the barbell and the triple ear piercing is on full display. When she turns her head, the light bounces off the matching eyebrow and septum piercings. Underneath her black shirt are two small bumps along her collarbones, and faded hues of black and red peek out from under the sleeve of her left bicep. 

It makes him homesick in a way he hasn’t felt in a long time. 

She hands over the paper bag, barely paying attention as their fingers brush in the exchange. “Have a good day,” her voice is rehearsed and halfway through, she’s already thumbing through her phone. 

Shades manages to choke out some form of _thanks_. 

His last stop is at a rundown bike shop twenty minutes away from the motel. 

To outsiders, it’s nothing but a shack with random machine parts spilling out from the open garage door and a beat up pickup truck in the driveway. Like a port in the storm. 

Bypassing the mess, Shades heads directly to the back of the shop where three men wearing kuttes are working through a twelve pack. Port Stockton patches are roughly sewn to the back. 

Their interaction is short lived. PSMC acts like _Pop’s_ in California. Switzerland. They see nothing, hear nothing, and most importantly, _say_ nothing. 

Shades ignores the glint of recognition in their eyes as he offers a wad of money for a Super Glide waiting under a tarp out back. They take the cash, and one even offers to load the bike in the truck outside and follow him back to the motel. 

By the time they get back, it’s only noon. Once the motorcycle touches the ground, a single helmet swaying with the momentum on the handlebar, the guy is gone in a heartbeat.

* * *

All morning it felt as if time slowed to a crawl, but now it’s like Shades is on a deadline. He moves quickly, grabbing the bags from the car and pausing only to slide the keys under the brothers’ door as he passes.

He manages to shuffle the bags enough to shove through his door, throws them down next to the leather bag on his bed, carelessly drops the Beretta on the opposite side. Abruptly, he tears into the clothes, ripping apart the plastic wrap and yanking off the tags in a near frenzy. His nice, expensive, fucking _claustrophobic_ clothes are immediately discarded in exchange for the cheap replacements. 

The t-shirt is short sleeved and soft, comforting in a way his silk shirts have never been. For the first time in months, Shades can see the reaper on his left forearm and the yawning maw on his right. He traces a thin, black line of ink that morphs into the reaper’s cloak breathing heavily before clamping down over the grinning skull. 

Suddenly, the need to see the rest is overwhelming. He roots through his overnight bag, pulling out his shaving kit, makeup remover wipes, and the pair of heavy boots he’d still kept in the back of his closet all these months. The boots fall on to the floor with a thud as he heads to the bathroom. 

Shades’ hair grows thick, dark, and fast. When he still had the damn mohawk, he painstakingly shaved the sides of his head every two to three days. When he made it to New York, he cut it himself, keeping it clipped in a fade so that he could easily blanket the tribal tattoos on the sides with makeup. Constantly paranoid that his hair wouldn’t grow thick enough, dark enough, fast enough to cover them. 

Before take off, he buzzed it all off to apply heavy duty concealer. Between the makeupstill there and a light dusting of hair already appearing, it’s like the tattoos were never there.

Without hesitation, he roughly wipes down his head, scrubbing until the skin turns pink and the thick lines are distinct on either side. Tossing the waste in the trash, Shades reaches for the shaving cream and razor, liberally smearing the foam over his entire head. Oh so carefully, with the same deadly precision he learned at Seagate, he drags the razor in long strokes around his ears and down his neck, ensuring the tattoos lay stark against his skull. 

A man he doesn’t recognize anymore stares back at him from the mirror. He has to stomp down on the urge to ram his fist into the reflection’s face.

At least he doesn’t look like a man strung out, on borrowed time.

Shades honestly doesn’t know if what’s looking back at him is any better. 

* * *

Seventeen fucking minutes have gone. Time always betrayed him. Seconds had a sick habit of slipping through his fingers like oil, gone before he even noticed. So Shades doesn’t waste any more of it.

Simultaneously, he shoves his feet in the boots and straps on the Ka-Bar. After doing up the laces, the Beretta is put back in its place of glory at the small of his back. Possibly a stupid choice on his part, but c'est la vie, or what the fuck ever. 

He empties out his wallet. All that remains is his last five hundred in cash and Hernan Alvarez’s California license. He leaves his iPhone but picks up the Ray-Bans on his way out.

The hallway is empty, but he makes sure to keep the door from slamming shut. The Dynamic Duo deserved that vacation Mariah didn’t want them to have. 

Outside, the Super Glide shines in the mid-afternoon sun, something glorious and beautiful. If he was still the same man from three, four years ago, Shades would honest to Christ start sobbing at the sight. But he isn’t. Slipping the sunglasses on, he shields himself from the glare of the bike, settles into the seat, clips the helmet on, and starts up the ignition. 

Apparently, there’s still some part of him he hasn’t burned and hollowed out because that thing scratching at his ribcage, gnawing on his heart eases slightly with the roar of the engine. Tremors shake through his thighs. Whether or not it’s because of the machine between them, he’s not sure. 

Pulling out of the parking lot he can already tell the ten miles to isn’t going to be enough. Shades can already feel a familiar phantom itch running up and down his arms, encircling his wrists before skipping across his knuckles. He squeezes the handlebar tighter, physically stopping himself from gunning the throttle and go forty miles over the speed limit rather than maintaining five under. 

He keeps to back roads. The freeway is too much of a lure right now. With all the speed traps and pigs, there’s no way he’d be able to get back to Harlem without some kind of price on his head. Both illegal and not. 

The sun beats hard and hot along his bare arms. No kutte or jacket means no protection for his vulnerable back as the wind whips his shirt around his torso. A reminder: he’s alone here. 

* * *

Eventually, he turns down his old street, slows to a crawl as he comes close to the old house. As the club got deeper in bed with the cartel he rarely saw the place, only able to come home to obsessively scrub, bleach, and dust. The lawn used to be sparse, obviously clean, but nothing more than a few bushes that were there before he’d bought the house. Now, it’s like a riot of color.

Peonies explode from a plot of land flush against the house. Another plot is boxed off where he can barely see tomatoes ripening on the vines, and what might be blackberries next to them. Toys litter the yard, a Prius and a jeep sit cozily in the driveway. Even a fucking wall of sunflowers towers over the right side of the building, curling ever so slightly so the heads coyly brush the top of the front door. 

His throat works at the sight. 

Easily forgotten, easily replaced. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This isn't the most exciting or longest chapter, but it was fun for me to explore the dichotomy of Juice's insecurities and Shade's will to keep going.
> 
> Thank you so much for reading! Find me at my [tumblr](http://ruskieblaine.tumblr.com).


End file.
